The Kingdom
by intergalacticbooty
Summary: Dean is a hardworking mechanic and volunteer firefighter who harbors a strong desire to be a sub. Roman owns the most illustrious and expansive BDSM clubs. Cross-posted on the kinkmeme. Contains: BDSM, sub/dom. Reviews encouraged and desired.
1. Chapter 1

This club was some high class kinda shit. It was high class kinda shit that Dean Ambrose generally couldn't afford on a mechanic and volunteer firefighter's salary. But hell, he's worked his ass off all 30 years of his life and he's been having this boiling within him for a great portion of it. He read up on this shit, found out these kind fetishes started you off young. He tried numerous times to think back to what the origin of his fascination was, but gave up each time. Because really, he was stuck with these desires and never acted on them. Until now.

But back to this club. The Kingdom, it's called. High class shit and you can only get a minimum of a 6-month subscription. Six fucking thousand dollars, each additional month another 1.5k and Dean doesn't try to wrap around the fact he paid ten months' worth of rent on a goddamn club. He supposes go big or go home, though, and he went big.

The Kingdom. He's lucky enough to have one of its branch locations only 3 hours outside of town. The research he's allowed to do finding out it's the cream of the crop, the best bondage and BDSM chain club state side. Clean, real clean, because Dean hasn't had a partner besides his hand in 4 years and he's not going to risk getting some skivvy disease when he spent so much money, when he's going to indulge in something he's wanted for so long.

Took him 4 months to get approved, had to take STD tests and a physical and a psych evaluation. Allergy tests, and everything in between and besides that manic depression diagnosis Dean already knew of, he meets enough of the standards to become "A Prince of the Kingdom" a discreet, gorgeous letter sealed with fucking candlewax that had been mailed to his house. He was thrumming with excitement. Three days later a discreet and just as classy little black box was delivered to his door.

Eyes were wide as Dean opened it, finding a gorgeous and handcrafted leather collar. Dean didn't need to participate to know he was submissive, to know he wanted to be tied up and not doing the tying. His name embroidered in it, gold to signify he had no allergies, and it felt…it felt right as he hesitantly tried it on.

"Fuck…" He whispers, running his fingers over it before breathing out shakily. Tomorrow night he'd join 'The Kingdom' for the first time.


	2. Chapter 2

His rickety, rusty little truck made for hauling looked out of place in the parking lot full of Roll Royces, limos, and other expensive foreign shits he can't name. But he paid for his membership just like the high class doms and subs and he'll be damned if he's gonna be denied entry, denied pleasure he denied himself for so long.

That's what he's been telling himself as the sun sets and he's still in said shitty truck, hands grasping on his steering wheel. The engine's off, his heart is in his throat, and he's close to turning it back on until his collar catches his eye and he lets out a sigh.

"You can do this, Ambrose." Great, he was talking to himself. "You got this, man…those prissy fucks won't know what hit 'em."

If Dean Ambrose was anything, he was stubborn as hell. Bullheaded and determined and despite the butterflies in his stomach and his legs are Jell-O. He thinks the feeling, this tension and uneasiness, wild dissipate as he gets to the front door of The Kingdom.

It's elegant, several stories tall in the middle of nowhere, resembling a high class hotel and Dean's hand doesn't stop shaking as he grasps the door handle. The lobby is rather normal, resembling a slick, modern style restaurant or something and the man at the reception desk looks at him in disbelief.

"I, uh, 'm a member…" Dean rasps, sliding the collar and identification card they had mailed to him out of his pocket. His palms are sweaty, but the receptionist with a crooked nose and neatly trimmed beard and light eyes takes it with a winning and pleasant smile.

"First time, hmm?" A British accent and the Ohioan would chuckle at how ridiculously appropriate it is that a posh ass place like this has Brits working the front desk if he didn't feel like jumping out of his own skin from nerves.

He grunts in assent as takes in more of the scenery while the receptionist, Wade the little metal nameplate says, eyes beginning to bulge. There's a winding marble staircase with a cherry wood railing, the couches and chairs in this little reception area made of pure leather, and Dean swears he can see gold flecks in the pure black floor beneath him. Right, so $6,000.

"Since this is your first visit, we need you to sign a confidentiality agreement." Wade explains and hands over a black clipboard with a simple form Dean starts to sign. "All drinks, rooms, and equipment are covered in your membership fees. Assistants are available in every main congregating room. They wear white wristbands. You can ask them any questions at any time. Dom's wear black leather wrist wear with their names, red for those allergic to latex and gold for those not. Likewise for Sub's collars. "

"Mmhm…" Dean nods in understanding, ears perking up when he realizes that at the very least there's unlimited booze. Because now he's starting to regret it, that stubbornness sinking into him as he notices a golden watch on Wade's wrist that probably costs more than Dean makes in half a year. He doesn't belong here.

"And there's a red panic button in the corner of all private rooms, just in case." And Dean twitches at that, blue orbs going wide because what the absolute fuck? "Don't worry, it's a failsafe for any emergency." The Brit realizes he isn't conceived and continues. "I have had the pleasure of working for this particular location for seven years. The panic button was pressed only once in that time and it was due to a curtain catching fire.

While now Dean's face is just scrunched up in confusion. "Candles…waxplay." He clarifies, finding it a bit bizarre that a man who has a membership to the hottest, most discreet, and priciest BDSM club needs this type of clarification. He knew he was new to the club, but maybe he was knew to the whole scene.

"Anything else er…?" The brunette asks, shoving his hands into his jean pockets nervously, a slight nervous twitch to his face that the receptionist tries not to notice.

"Not if you don't have any questions." He pauses for a moment before sliding from behind the desk finally, standing up, fucking Christ he's tall, and handing Dean a simple little silver key in exchange for his leather jacket, the slender male opting to keep on his raggedy black hoodie, thumbs poking through the sleeves. "Welcome to The Kingdom, Prince Dean."


	3. Chapter 3

Dean is ascending the stairs, all nervous shuffles as he the weight of the small silver key in his pocket seems to drag down his feet. He's palming and rubbing that costly leather collar with the hand that isn't clutching the railing for dear fucking life.

"C'mon, Ambrose…get it together." He mutters to himself, taking in shivering breathes as he snaps the collar on, zipping his hoodie up fully to obscure it. Dean stops after the first flight of winding steps, greeting by a massive cherry wood door with a small lock on it. "Better get your goddamn money's worth." He huffs out, before fumbling with the lock a bit, the tiny key a perfect fit.

The room is hazy, nearly smoky, despite the fact no cigars or cigarettes are allowed in main rooms. Maybe it's just the essence of pure sweat and sex that's thrumming through the massive hall. It's like a ballroom, with high ceilings and chandeliers, black walls with elegant silver paintings, black leather furniture and black tiled floor with silver speckled in. Dean supposes that's fitting and matches the silver outlines gracing the walls.

He's so lost in taking in the long, open hallway that he nearly jumps out of his skin when two massive assistants, one with tan skin and long brown hair and another with an orange Mohawk. The stout one with brown hair smiles at him.

"Enjoy your stay, Prince." A heavy accent informs him.

There's another door at the end of this hallway and as he creeps down it, there's a thumping beat the slowly grows and grows until he can practically make out the lyrics of a sinfully sexual song and he's pretty sure his heart is in his throat and his stomach is in his ass.

This door isn't locked and Dean hesitantly lays his hand against it, feeling the vibration of music and the murmur of voices. It's now or never and he puffs his chest up, sliding the dark oak open.

There's bodies, everywhere. Men. Women. Androgynous. Unknown. Clad in anything from lace to leather to latex and it takes the Ohioan a staggering breath to move forward. Everyone is dressed to the nines, for sure, clearly having experience and prepared for their own fun.

No one is really fucking, he supposes that's what the private rooms are for, but they sure as fuck are mingling. A guy in his mid-40s that reminds Dean vaguely of Gordon Ramsay but cooler hands the leash of a Billy Rae Cyrus kinda guy to a woman with brown, curling locks and a skintight black latex dress, flashing a black wristband that says 'Stephanie' in gold. She's snickering at something the Ramsay lookalike says before she catches Dean's gaze, shooting him a small look that causes him to stare down, trying to rush towards the bar.

A petite blond bumps into Dean on the way there, a collar with 'Renee' in red on it as her eyes bulge and sparkle in it. "Well, uh, hi there…" She says rather nervously and Dean licks his bottom lip nervously, noticing the glint in her eye before he unzips his hoodie a couple inches, revealing his own collar. "…oh, uh…nevermind." The blond scampers off, waving to a tall male off in the distance and Dean sighs. The guy shoots him a look back, similar to what 'Stephanie' gave him and it screamed loud and clear…'you don't belong here'.

"What AM I even doin' here?" He huffs as he slides onto a stool in front of the bar. It's slick and cool, the counter some type of marble and there's a black light against the back of it, illuminating the array of expensive liquor and drinks, some shit Dean couldn't pronounce even if he wanted to try.

"What can I get you, hombre?" Another thick accent, this one Hispanic as a man with a devilish grin, fitting button down with sleeved rolled up to his elbows turns around, and gelled back hair is cleaning out a long glass.

"Uh, whiskey…"

"What brand?"

"Cheapest-…er…the strongest shit you got?" It's more of a question than a statement, but the bartender swings around in understanding to complete the order. "At least the booze is included…" He mutter to himself, rubbing at his floppy mess of sandy brown locks, before gawking at the sight of a monster of a man. Guy had to be over 300 lbs., looked like a UFC fighter or something but here he is, kissing and sucking the neck of a heavier, balding man like his life depended on it.

Yeah, at least the booze was included, cause there was no way Dean would get what he wanted. He just didn't belong. These people around him, the writhing and chuckling and flirting and expensive sexy gear…all taking and giving in equal measures as Dean nurses a bottle of whiskey that costs more than his entire outfit. He could honest to god die right now. What had he been thinking? "The Kingdom has no place for a pauper." Dean mutters to himself bitterly.


	4. Chapter 4

Roman stares out amongst one of the main rooms of this particular Kingdom from an elegant balcony. He never participated, but loved watching the festivities. Seeing others unwind, discover their sexualities and come into completion like this…it was what he lived for. It's why he built this empire. Sure, it was lonely at times. Money was always flowing, there was always a submissive willing to be bed (although he had stopped taking them up on offers years ago), but more often than not he finds himself wishing for someone to share this empire with.

He snaps out of his thoughts, however, when Dolph arrives with a Jack and coke as requested, giving him a small smile and nodding off to make his way back downstairs to serve the masses. Sipping at his drink silently, the Samoan scans the crowd, seeing mostly regulars but a few fresh and new faces. Ah, there's Toni and Jack scampering off to a private room. Those two had been consistent members for three years now, married after two, and yet every night seemed like their honeymoon.

Roman was more than a little jealous at that aspect. He continues his scanning, however, smiling at the mingling and mixing of leather and lace, before his eyes stop at the sight of a body with its back turned to the party as sitting solo at the bar.

That wasn't completely unusual, more than a few patrons loved to flirt with or ask Alberto when his shift was done, but that wasn't the case. The Mexican was off to the other side of the bar, that lone figure with jeans and a faded hoodie and sandy, nearly red-brown hair wasn't pursuing him.

Something sank in Roman's hear a little bit for this man. It was quite obviously his first time here, Roman knew as many of his members by name and face as possible, but he was drawing a complete blank. Which was a damn shame because he sees that head shift sideways and is greeted with quite possibly the saddest, droopiest, and biggest blue eyes he's ever seen.

Roman indulges and certainly has indulged in the sins of the flesh, he's in the business of it, but he doesn't think he's ever had his breath taken away like this. God, those eyes, eyes that scream 'please' and then he takes in the rest. That slender, but tall build, nearly button nose and thin, but pouty lips.

"Damn shame…" He mutters to himself, sipping at his drink as the realization hits him that this man is alone, probably inexperienced, and based on his clothes probably spent a lot of money he doesn't have or managed to scrounge up and his miserable. And it just sits wrong in his stomach. Roman is a dominant, can't tell from where he is if this man has a wristband or a collar but doesn't care as he rummages in a small console next to his literal throne to retrieve his own leather wristband.

It's been years since he's worn this thing, but the weight of it is comfortable and familiar as he finishes off his drink, damn determined to turn that pouty bottom lip of that man into an orgasmic grin.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean's about a quarter through that bottle of strongest goddamn whiskey he's ever had, but the buzz he hoped for hasn't arrived. Instead there's just dread, anger and frustration as he throws back another shot. He curses himself silently, remembering he's three goddamn hours away from home and if he tries to drive back there's a guarantee he'll be pulled over. So the Ohioan is stuck here, with all this sex and pleasure potentially at his fingertips and it should be a dream come true, but it's pure torture. And not the type of torture he was hoping to get.

Lost in his thoughts as he plays with the elegant glass coaster, it takes him a moment to realize there are tons of eyes shooting in his direction and he's ready to run out, to leave it all behind because he knows he isn't welcome but for fuck's sake can't the guy drink in peace? He's ready to hop off the stool and make a beeline for the exit when he realizes a presence has slide into the stool next to him. This must be who everyone is staring at and the brunette huffs, turning to face him before he gasps.

"Hey there…" Smooth and deep. Dark, tall, and handsome. This man his gorgeous, eyes sliver in the sensual lighting, suit tailored to fit every muscular bump and Dean sees a tattoo peeking out from the unbuttoned top of his shirt. Long, raven black locks pulled into a tight ponytail, a strong jawline, and delicious, full pink lips that makes the smaller male squirm. He's so far out of Dean's league, they're not even playing the same sport.

"What'd'ya want?" He asks, trying to play off casually as he focuses back in on his half empty shot glass, trying to ignore the shaking of excitement under his skin. "Who are ya?"

"I'm Roman Reigns." And Dean instantly recognizes the name, knowing it was the name signed in ink at the bottom of all the letters addressed to his home. So, this was the owner. And Dean feels a deep, boiling anger start to form. This fucker was here to mock him, to kick him out. Bet he'll bring up some shit like 'We have a certain look to our establishment' and Dean slams his glass back down.

"The owner, huh?" He snorts at that, Roman catching sight of his collar and licking his plump bottom lip without Dean being aware. "Lemme guess, gonna kick me out, huh?"

"What, no, no, Dean…" He says, catching the younger male's name on that collar that fits so perfectly around his pale throat. But Dean doesn't register his words, huffing out then with another nasty snort full of malice.

"I paid for this fuckin' membership like everyone else, okay? Let me…just lemme drink."

"I'm not tryin' to kick you out, baby boy…" Dean gasps and feels hot all of a sudden, not sure if it's from embarrassment at his outburst or such a sweet nickname being given to him, but suddenly there's a hand finger brushing some of his unruly locks behind an ear and a thick thumb tilting his jaw outwards.

"Dude, what're you trying to do?" He scuffles, feeling his face turn pink as he tries to shift away.

"I'm here because I can't stand to see a sweet boy like yourself sitting here all on his lonesome…" Smooth like butter and Dean's damn near melting. "You're just beggin' to be played with, boy…and I wonder if you'd give me the honor of playmate."


	6. Chapter 6

Dean bites in at his bottom lip then, the pink line disappearing before he snorts, focusing back in on his drink. "Like a stud like you wants a beat of my damn near homeless ass." Roman can tell the conversation is turning in a certain direction and that they have an audience and he quickly takes Dean's hand, pulling him off the bar stool.

"We don't have to do anything but talk, baby boy, but I think you'd be a lot more comfortable without them watching." Roman motions to the hall behind them and Dean nods hesitantly, allowing himself to be dragged up another staircase, down a couple halls, and to a room that needs Roman's thumb print to get in.

It's gorgeous, a massive bedroom draped in red crushed velvet, marble floors, silk sheets, and gorgeous leather furniture. Dean slides into a leather couch, draping his leg of a side and whistling idly as Roman sits opposite in what can only be described as a throne.

The younger male is thumbing at his collar and it causes something to stir within the Samoan. Because that collar fits this sweet boy so well, those beautiful baby blue eyes pleading for someone to treat him right. "So, you ever done anything like this before?"

"Uh…n-no…" Dean starts, the confident whistling and sprawled out posture both receding to Roman's displeasure. He wanted this man as comfortable and hopefully eventually as turned on as possible.

"That's alright…" He voice smooth as honey as he leans forward in his thrown, catching Dean's eye with his piercing silver graze. "…everyone's gotta start somewhere, babe." That sandy mop shakes as the mechanic snorts in disbelief.

"I'm 30 fuckin' years old, dude, and the kinkiest thing I've done is shove a finger up my ass…" Dean rolls his eyes, nipping at his thumb before tugging on the loose strands of his hoodie's thumbholes.

Something primal boils within the club's owner, because god…he's had some newbie or unbroken subs before. But this is something special. Because he's drawn to this man, this man who seems all cocky confidence and swagger, knowing what he wants but so afraid to ask for it. "You give me safeword and some ideas, babe…and I can make this the kinkiest night of your life."

Dean's head snaps up then and his eyes widen slightly. "You're jokin', right?"

"I already said you were beggin' to be played with." Roman stands up then, shrugging his blazer offer and pulling the button down's sleeves to his elbows. "And I meant that…" Dean stares at the muscles being revealed to him, licking at his bottom lip.

"I-I…" Dean hates stammering, hates sounding weak, but can anyone blame him when Roman begins petting through his hair, pushing it back and revealing to Dean just how sensitive his scalp is. "…I don't know what I like. What's good, y'know? I…I wanna try…looked into some stuff, but…"

"Did you find some things you like?" What a sinful tone it's said in, Roman's voice dipping impossibly low as he strides behind Dean, fingers traveling from his scalp to his shoulders, rubbing the tender flesh, well worked from Dean's forms of employment.

"Yeah…" Dean tenses at first, before Roman's fingers dip inside his hoodie, caressing the outline of his collarbone. God…he wants so bad. "…yeah, I found a few things."


	7. Chapter 7

"You did, huh?" Roman's lips are mere centimeters away from Dean's left ear, the younger male slumping against the couch, a shiver creeping up his spine.

He nods slowly, before tilting his head back to meet lust blown silver eyes. Roman bites into his bottom lip, eyes tracing the bob of Dean's Adam's apple as he swallows nervously. He begins to trace the outline of the collar, the younger male's eyes widening before he pulls back forward, looking down shyly.

"You know you can tell me, sweet boy…tell me what you saw…" It's a dangerous purr and Dean knows he could leave right now, get some type of refund, and forget he ever became a prince of The Kingdom. But he can't find it in himself, knows that he's denied his inner most desires for over a decade. He also knows that he'd be laying himself to the dom of dominates. For a moment the mechanic wants to bolt upright and out that disgustingly comfortable spot, but he's half hard and maybe he doesn't mind being Roman's prey for the night.

Dean licks at his lips, throat suddenly feeling dry and his cheeks tinging warm, noticing Roman's sultry gaze followed the movement. "Gettin'…t-tied up, y'know?" He has to pull away from those eyes, shame and arousal hot and burning. "…s-saw this one video, um…" Roman slides over the side of the couch, hands patient as he rubs the sandy brunette's neck. It felt good, the small moan not being missed by the older male as he continued. "…she…s-she was all tied up, and…he had a cane and…uh…people wear watchin', too..y'know?"

"I can imagine." Roman says with a small smile, before slipping back to rubbing Dean's collarbone. "Would you like something like that?"

Dean sucks in a breath at that, hands clutching tightly onto the rough fabric of his jeans. "C-Can you do that for me? I…I-I mean, um…n-never done this kinda shit before, y'know? I'm…I'm not sure I'd be a good sub for you."

The Samoan chuckles once more, tilting Dean's jaw up to meet his gaze, running a hand across the younger male's thigh, clutching the muscle there. "I can tell just by looking at you want a good sub you could be. And I can do this for you…this and so much more. Just give me your safe word and I'll make this a night you won't ever forget."

He nods after a moment, eyes wide and heart hammering in his chest. "Ohio." It's barely above a whisper, but the grin breaking out across the club owner's handsome features signals to Dean the he understood.


End file.
